Right the Wrongs
by whenwinterfell
Summary: A Margaery/Robb in which they find each other but cannot have each other. Or can they? A modern AU about love against odds.
1. Chapter 1

Margaery never believed she'd ever find love at first sight, or even second or third for that matter.

She married to save her brother Loras from exposure and, consequently, destruction. She married Renly so Loras would have him near. She married Renly, not because she loved him, but because her big shot banker father would handle loss of face just as badly as he'd handle loss of money. She married because the Baratheons equalled a good match for any Tyrell, and because they were linked to that other, filthy rich, family – the Lannisters. She had seen how people like her father and Robert Baratheon and the likes of Tywin Lannister always sought each other out when it came to brokering strategic marriages. She married for all those reasons, but none of them were love. Let alone at first sight. Loras and Renly, now that was the real deal, she knew, but Margaery didn't think it would ever be for her.

Until, of course, she met Robb Stark.

Robb Stark with his fiery curls and his Tully blue eyes, forever the bachelor until his mother had practically twisted his arm into an engagement to Roslin Frey. Robb's father, owner of Stark Inc., the biggest manufacturer of computer hardware in all of Westeros, had been in dire need of Walder Frey's substantial programming division and there was nothing like a good strategic marriage to secure such a merger.

The tabloids had been all over Robb after the news of his engagement broke, causing Margaery to recognise him immediately; the glacier blue of his eyes, the square, unshaven jaw line, the fact that he was never in a suit but always the best dressed guy around. He had bought her a drink – a fruity, girly one that he joked about, and she had felt the pull of that icy-oddly-warm twinkle in his eyes all the way down to the small of her back. Within minutes she was on his barstool and he was standing – too close more times than not – and they were telling each other stories of what it was like to be the offspring of two of Westeros's most influential families.

Robb knew Renly (the Baratheon clan had always been close to the Starks of Winterfell), and obviously Robb's imminent marriage to the arguably prettiest Frey in the flock was common knowledge after every single newspaper belonging to media tycoon Petyr Baelish had devoted multi-paged, sprawling articles to it, the upcoming marriage both a social as well as an economic slam dunk.

He had kissed her at her front door, a quick peck on the cheek, muttering his thanks for providing him with a much better night out than he had anticipated in the city that his father, Eddard Stark, systematically labelled a rat's nest, and was much too hot to be able to breathe properly in anyway. It wasn't until she had put her coat on the next day that she found the matchbook in one of her pockets, his number and hotel room and date of departure scribbled on the inside of it.

She never told Renly – he wouldn't have minded anyway; she had just hailed a taxi and rushed to his lavish hotel, unable to wait for the lift but taking the stairs, arriving at his door with a pounding heart – wanting only one thing.

"Please, kiss me," she'd said.

"You're engaged," she had gasped into his mouth, their lips the most perfect fit as they kissed all through the process of undressing each other with fumbling, hurried hands.

"You're married," he countered with a breathless chuckle, pulling down the long zipper of her short, silk dress.

"Renly's gay," she said, surprising even herself at spouting such sensitive information to a virtual stranger. "Even if I tell him, he won't mind." His eyes betrayed only a sliver of knowledge before he pushed the bra straps off her shoulders and she arched her back, offering herself to him, gasping when his hand closed around her breast.

"Roslin's a thousand miles away," Robb groaned as she sucked in his bottom lip, something she had been wanting to do ever since she had watched him empty his beer bottle and lick his lips the evening before. "And I'm not married yet."

He had lifted and carried her to the bedroom of his hotel suite, kneeling on the mattress before putting her on her back, crowding her on hands and knees as he sucked a nipple between his lips. It wasn't until she felt him hard and wanting against her hip that she realised how much she had missed being with a man who actually desired her, who seemed to be falling apart when touching her, kissing her in every last sensitive spot – spending forever to find out what they were.

Margaery was more than just a pretty face. Like Loras, she had the trademark Tyrell dark-brown locks; the wide-open, alert gaze and the fine, flawless skin, not to mention her impeccable sense of humour, business instinct and manners. For the terrible father Mace Tyrell had been, ever absent from her life, he had sent her to the best schools in the country, ensuring she would grow into womanhood knowing how to carry herself – how to succeed.

Robb Stark was different; his cool and collected stoicism mirrored the impenetrable North he hailed from. Like his father he wasn't a smooth talker, never wasted words when he didn't have anything meaningful to say, hadn't talked himself into her bedroom after their first encounter, even if she knew he wouldn't have had a hard time succeeding at that. He had left her wanting him – pacing her apartment from room to room, barely able to fall asleep once she'd finally found enough peace of mind to go to bed – thinking about that strong, steady body against her when he'd so chastely kissed her cheek –

– when he'd slipped the matchbook into her pocket.

Because for all his stoic, northern cool, there was something infinitely fiery about Robb Stark as well, once you were allowed to explore beyond the outer layers. It was something she had rapidly become addicted to, finding the wildest excuses to go back to his rooms again and again. He had prolonged his business for as long as he could, giving them more time than strictly necessary, allowing to turn whatever it was they were doing into a full-blown affair – quickly spiralling out of control – even within the limits of the three instead of two weeks Robb had managed to make his stay last.

She vaguely wondered if Renly had put two and two together now that she had spent so many days and nights away from the mansion, but she dismissed the question and her guilty conscience just as quickly as she realised she had given him plenty of opportunity to hook up with her brother in those weeks.

She had returned to Renly during the day-time, when Robb was working, meeting with future investors, ensuring a number of important deals for his father. Renly never asked, and she never told, but she knew he knew and he smiled at her in a way she had never seen him smile before. "Go out to lunch," he had suggested. "That new place overlooking the bay, maybe?" She had; met up with Robb at a wonderful table one could only get if there were serious strings to pull. She had managed to play it cool when Robb refilled her wineglass, telling her casually how Renly and Loras had just sat down at a table somewhere behind her, checking him out as much as they were her.

"Be careful," Renly had told her after the weekend, when Robb had returned to work. She had only nodded, still reeling from the two days of sensory overload, his body never far from hers, spilling their lives' tales in between smatterings of urgent, incredible sex. "You're playing with fire."

She had nodded at Renly again, knowing better.

He was waking up next to her, a long groan into his pillow, and she turned to watch him surface.

"Hey," he smiled, his curls an adorable russet mess around his face.

"Hey," she smiled, rolling into his embrace.

"My last day," he groaned, realisation dawning, his blue eyes clouding.

She slid her leg across his hips, inhaling the musky warmth of his neck.

"You could take me with you," she suggested on a cheeky whisper, sucking a soft bruise behind his ear. "I fit most suitcases, I'm sure."

"Don't know about suitcases," Robb breathed, hitching her body up on his, aligning their hips before using his fingers to slide her open in one smooth, almost-practised motion, "but you fit me amazingly." She had to bite back her laughter when she sank down on him without hesitation, pushing up from his chest and watching his eyes roll back as she clenched around him.

They'd grown expert at knowing what the other wanted so fast it scared her, and she also knew she was falling so hard for Robb that saying goodbye might become more of a problem than she initially anticipated. She'd travel with him to Winterfell in a heartbeat but her father would be instantly suspicious and it made her think of ways to be less conspicuous about it. Maybe she could get Renly to join her, promise him she'd bring Loras too.

"Where are you?" Robb asked then and she opened her eyes, blushing fiercely when she realised she was lost in her scheming as much as she was lost in the heady feeling of him inside of her.

"Trying to picture Winterfell," she answered. "With all the ice and snow up there."

"My love-making skills are rapidly going downhill then," he joked, pulling her flush against his chest before rolling them over, taking control, bringing her off with an almost angry determination.

The subject of his departure wasn't broached again, and Margaery wondered if a trip to his ancient, northern home was even possible. They had never really discussed where they would go after the soft, sensory bubble they had created in his hotel room was punctured; had never dared to talk about if things between them could ever progress beyond this storm of passion they had whipped up in no time at all.

Robb's wedding was within a few weeks, she knew, even though he never gave her the exact date – unwilling to refer to that part of his life. Not necessarily because he didn't want to share his feelings with her – she felt like deep down it was something he wanted to do more than anything – but because it would cast a big, ugly shadow over their happiness and neither of them wanted for that to happen when the whole affair was going to be short-lived to begin with.

"I've got to go," he murmured after, holding her so close to his chest she felt like being crushed.

"Kiss me," she said, realising suddenly how nothing would make sense again without him, and it crushed her so much more than his body ever could.

He kissed her. Held her hand. Pulled her with him into the lift, bag slung across his shoulder; kissed her again when the doors slid closed.

They were still kissing as the lift doors opened; kissed as they crossed the lobby hand in hand.

"Kiss me," was what she said – again – until his taxi pulled up and there was nothing left to do.

Because maybe if they kissed, she could make it last, could make him stay;

could right the wrongs of meeting him too late.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course Margaery had heard the stories, the _tales_ she sometimes thought, of the cold, barren waste that was the North. Snow was the key word here, she realised, as she stared out of the window of the car that was taking her further and further away from White Harbour airport and deeper and deeper into these impenetrable white fields. She huddled into her cardigan, imagining the cold outside mingling with the comfortable warmth inside the car, wondering how long it would take for a novice like her to die when faced with the gruelling circumstances outside. She also wondered how anyone could comfortably live her, but then she remembered how Robb's eyes would always go vaguely distant as he told her stories of Winterfell, the capital of the North; or, in his case, home.

"Not much longer now," Willas remarked as he tried to keep track of where they were on the satnav, fiddling with the controls to try and zoom out their designated route.

"I'm surprised that thing even has connection," Loras muttered next to her, surprising her as she thought he had been asleep for most of their drive from the airport. He had been moping ever since he'd learned that Renly (and all of the Baratheons for that matter) would be at Winterfell days before the rest of the guests were to arrive, leaving him to travel with his own family. She had briefly wondered if she should bring up the fact she wouldn't be travelling with her own husband either, adding that she wasn't making a fuss over _that_, but they'd both know how hypocritical she would be and so she refrained. Renly had always been nothing more than a good friend and marrying him had not miraculously changed that. She could travel to all the corners of Westeros (and Essos too if the need arose) and not miss Renly for a single second. Their marriage was one of convenience and they both knew it. Loras, on the other hand, really missed Renly by his side and she just picked up his hand and squeezed it gently.

"Don't be grumpy," she hushed. "We haven't travelled back in time, these are not the Stone Ages, and northerners are not cavemen. You're not going to treat them as such only because you're a wuss who cannot handle the cold."

He muttered something and snuggled up against her side, the both of them watching the vast, white planes outside flash by. "Since when are you so defensive of the North?" Willas asked from the passenger seat and Loras looked up at her face expectantly. She betrayed nothing, though, as she had come prepared.

"The Starks are lovely people," she said, tapping into the knowledge she had of at least _one_ Stark. "And they have invited the great families from every possible corner of Westeros; I hear there will even be _Ironborn_ among the guests, so we should at least show them a little courtesy for that."

"Of course," Willas relented and smiled at her over his shoulder. "It was rather unexpected, wasn't it? Those extensive invitations? I mean, I doubt Eddard Stark would invite a Lannister to stay under his roof if he could help it. Tywin and Ned openly hate each other."

"Ned Stark doesn't hate," Margaery chuckled. "He merely _disapproves_."

"That's what he wants you to believe," Loras chimed in, sitting up straight again now that there was something to talk about. "Those wolves seem stoic to the bone, but underneath all that honour and cool they are still wild animals who do and think whatever they damn well please."

_Isn't that a fact_, Margaery thought and a sweet shiver of remembrance ran along her spine as she could almost _feel_ Robb Stark's teeth grazing the insides of her thighs right before he would do wet-hot-unspeakable things to her. She shook herself when she noticed Loras staring at her, mouthing _I'm fine_.

Because she _was_ fine. Loras could raise his eyebrows at her to all seven hells and back – she was fine. She had locked herself up for a good week after Robb had left and cried with the loss of him, but eventually she had crawled out of her bedroom and resumed life. It had been a wonderful time, he had been amazing and sweet not to mention capable of making her come three times a night, but he was spoken for and she had known it all along.

"Winterfell," their driver suddenly announced, and indeed – in the distance they could make out the enormous castle that dwarfed the town built around it. Winterfell had an airstrip, but as the first signs of winter were arriving, the weather was already too unpredictable for them to fly there. The town was small, especially when compared to southern standards, and mostly filled with tourists who liked winter sports. Winter Town had grown into quite the famous skiing resort over the past years, especially when Sansa Stark had decided to keep her famous chain of Beauty Spas north of the Neck and its Flag Store just outside Winterfell – declining with force a marriage proposal forged by Robert Baratheon himself; wishing Joffrey Baratheon the best of luck in finding a more willing bride. As Margaery watched Winter Town and the ancient castle of Winterfell grow bigger and bigger in the windscreen, she wondered why she had never considered holidaying here; she had more than once seen the glossy ads for it in magazines and papers. It also dawned on her what beauty Robb had referred to when he told her about the North and the place he called home; in fact, his whole being suddenly made a lot more sense to her.

She spent the remainder of their journey pushing images of Robb Stark from her brain, telling herself she was going to his wedding, that he was to be the groom to Roslin Frey's undoubtedly blushing bride and that Margaery Tyrell couldn't possibly walk around the wedding venue entertaining indecent thoughts about said groom. She'd suffer through multiple cold showers first.

Dropping down on her bed, Margaery tried to think of the number of hands she'd shaken, of all the names she heard and the faces she'd been introduced to and the world was simply spinning with it. There was the entire Baratheon clan, and even though Renly had tried to prepare her for the sour dough that was his second brother Stannis, she really couldn't stand to be in the man's presence for more than a handshake and a friendly _how are you doing_, praying for the generic answer so she could walk off again.

There were too many Lannisters to anyone's liking. Jaime was still a handsome devil - even after that terrible accident, but with the most recent rumours permeating the airwaves that he might be banging his own sister Cersei she could only shudder at the thought before plastering a fake smile onto her face as she was reintroduced to the golden-haired twins. Cersei had brought the children, though. There was Joffrey (whom she was careful to avoid), his little adorable brother Tommen, and Myrcella, the only one she really truly liked. Technically, she was their aunt, but there was such an age difference between Renly and his eldest brother that she had never used the term with his nephews and nieces as it made her feel a thousand years old, when in reality she and Myrcella only differed six years.

Of course there was a heavy contingent of Freys milling about. For this occasion they were obviously expected to come in great numbers, but with the Freys the amount of family members had always been _this_ side of ridiculous, not to mention the fact that many of them gave her the creeps most of the time (with old man Walder, the father of the bride, the creepiest of them all) and she wondered how Robb would ever be able to stomach this particular breed of in-laws.

There were the Arryns from the eastern Vale, and the Martells from the far south, and with Theon Greyjoy being Robb's Best Man, even House Greyjoy had provided a substantial envoy. That Theon had lived with the Starks for almost all his life, and that there were no other Greyjoys in attendance, was of no importance: the seven great families of Westeros were all there. When she spotted the numerous relations to the Stark family (the Karstark and the Tully families) and was introduced to Ned's countless business associates (the Mormonts, the Flints, the Manderly's, the Reeds and the Umbers), and when she had barely managed to escape having to shake hands with the Boltons _and_ the Dustins, Margaery couldn't handle any more names and fled to the relative safety of her rooms.

Looking around, Renly had barely left a mark on the room during the two days he had already been in Winterfell, and she knew straight away he would hook up with Loras as soon as he got the chance. She had briefly kissed her husband hello, keeping up appearances in front of the inquisitive crowd in Ned Stark's massive reception hall, drinks and canapés carried around on enormous trays, and again she had to assure him she was fine.

As she dropped down on the bed she thought how the immense crowd of people would put an awful lot of pressure on the bridal couple, leaving her to wonder if she would even speak with Robb before he said those vowes. He had been conspicuously absent from the festivities in the reception hall (as had Roslin or Catelyn and Ned Stark for that matter) and she caught herself wishing she'd seen him. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she missed him and she wanted to talk to him once and make him smile before he took the plunge and married someone he didn't love.

Dinner would be a massive affair that evening, and getting dressed and fluffed up for the occasion was something she wasn't really looking forward to. She was tired from the journey, tired from having to adjust to the cold even though they were indoors most of the time; hell, she was tired even of having to constantly assure Renly and Loras, the only ones who were in on her secret. A knock on the door broke her train of thought and a footman brought her luggage inside. Again, she had to marvel at the sheer scale of the arrangements, as all the guests were staying somewhere inside Winterfell's vast grounds.

A second knock heralded her mother, dropping by to see if getting ready for the first evening of festivities was going smoothly. "Find the spa," Alerie suggested on stepping out again, as talks with her mother usually consisted of the bare minimum. "For a northern girl, I hear Sansa has an amazing thing going there."

Trying not to show the resentment she felt when her mother demeaned the north like her brother had tried to do earlier in the car, she forced a smile and said it was a good idea. Maybe she would even get to meet this famous Sansa, she thought; perhaps ask her about her older brother and the marriage he had been forced into. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, listening to her mother's heels clicking away in the corridor outside, and the image of herself as the blushing bride walking down the aisle on her father's side flashed before her eyes. Shaking her head quickly, she berated herself for thinking such foolish things – she could have said no when her father announced that he and all his children had been invited to the Stark wedding, but she decided to accept and watch Robb get married to someone who wasn't her. Besides, very easy to forget as it was, she was a married woman herself, even if Renly was never around. She changed into something simple that buttoned at the front and, grabbing her purse, left in search of the spa.

Sansa Stark was the spitting image of her brother.

Her eyes were just as icy blue, her hair equally red. She also blushed in the same endearing way when Margaery complimented her on '_Spark_' and even her smile made her think of Robb. The lavish facility was built to cover a hot spring that filled a number of basins in Winterfell's private, ancient garden called the Godswood, and Sansa had cleverly thought to exploit the soothing (some even claimed _healing)_ powers of the water. Beside the baths, Sansa had set up the full beauty treatment and as she gave Margaery a quick tour, she proudly told her how she was about to open branches in Riverrun and even as far south as King's Landing now that those in White Harbour and Seaguard had proved cost-effective.

"I'll be sure to visit the one in King's Landing," Margaery promised as she sat down, surprised when Sansa ran her hands through her hair, asking her what she would like to have done.

"Oh, I'll help you myself," she explained, dismissing one of the girls who was walking up with her kit, laughing and blushing when she added, "I meant to ask you something about your brother." Margaery smiled as she realised Sansa had just as much of a hidden agenda as she had and prepared for the usual questions about Loras, hoping to discourage lovely Sansa enough to prevent her from ending up in an embarrasing confrontation.

"My brother?" she said innocently as Sansa pulled her hair in a bun so she could apply make-up first. "What would you like to know? He's a staunch bachelor, you are aware of that, right? I doubt he will ever settle down, no matter the amount of admirers that are trying to get on his good side – and there have been many."

"Oh," Sansa spluttered a little, again eerily reminding Margaery of her older brother. "I had no idea Willas was so much sought-after. But it's stupid of me, of course; he's the heir of Highgarden after all."

It was Margaery's turn to splutter through an answer then, as she had not expected the object of Sansa's affection to be her _oldest _brother. She grinned, explaining to her how women usually came up to her to inquire after Loras, and that this interest in Willas was definitely a breath of fresh air. The laughter that fell from Sansa's mouth made Margaery fall instantly in love with her and she proceeded to tell her about Willas, about how clever and handsome he was, about that horrid moment when he had fallen from his horse and what that had done to him as a person and in the reflection of the mirror she could tell Sansa was soaking up every last word she had to offer. Maybe…

"And speaking of older brothers," she innocently tried to bridge the gap. "How is Robb doing – I mean, I'd be totally stressed out if this were _my_ wedding."

Sansa gave her reflection a thoughtful look before offering a shrug as her answer. "He's quiet," she said. "Doesn't really want to talk about it. It's almost common knowledge mother practically forced him to agree to this marriage, and father too, let's not forget him. I'm sure he will come to love Roslin over time – she's such a sweetheart, but I don't know," she sighed as she started pinning Margaery's hair in place. "Somehow she doesn't really fit him. And I wonder who does fit my brother; I always thought he needs someone who dares to put him in his place, to tell him off if he's being an idiot, like Jon and Theon and Arya do. I guess most women are intimidated by his last name and the fact he's the one to inherit Stark Inc. some day."

The implications of Sansa's words left both of them quietly contemplating what was about to happen under Winterfell's ancient roof.

"Thank you," Margaery said after a while, as she got up out of her chair, her hair a wonderfully intricate affair pinned down with two silver combs and some tiny white flowers. "That looks amazing." She turned her head this way and that to admire the look, and gave Sansa her warmest smile. "This place is amazing," she added, looking around once more. "Maybe I'll visit the baths while I'm here; or I'll become your most faithful visitor back in King's Landing." Sansa smiled and hugged her briefly.

"Thank you," she said timidly as she walked with her to the exit. "Maybe one of these days, while they're all still here…" she trailed off. "Maybe you could…"

"Introduce you to my brother?" Margaery filled in the gaps. "Of course I will; don't you worry."

Margaery entered the reception room with her arm looped through Renly's, wowing the crowd with her floor length sky blue gown and her shiny brown hair caught in two vintage silver combs. She could tell Renly was beaming as he led them to the table they would share with Myrcella and young Tommen Baratheon as well as Theon Greyjoy and Loras. As soon as her eye fell on her brother's seating card she wondered how many strings her husband had pulled to get his lover to sit at their table. The fact that she herself was seated with sweet, clever Myrcella made her very happy, though, and she had the distinct feeling her husband had orchestrated that as well when he manipulated the seating arrangements.

Fragments of why the Baratheon brothers had travelled north sooner than the rest had filtered through to her and, as business was obviously the most important reason, the usual bickering between the three brothers had come in at a decent second place. When Stannis hadn't been invited at first (and he'd blown a fuse because why invite Robert and not him – weren't they equally important?) and Eddard had rectified the situation but then felt obligated to invite Renly as well (which caused Stannis to blow another fuse – he hated Renly) it had resulted in the three brothers flying North together, fighting and quarrelling throughout their trip as was customary. Margaery was silently glad she had travelled with her much more subdued brother Willas and a (not quite) sleeping Loras.

Before she could think any more on it, Robb and Roslin walked in under loud cheering and catcalls (which stopped abruptly the second their respective parents entered the room) and dinner could finally commence. He hadn't spotted her, she knew, and it was probably for the best, but it was hard not to keep looking at him, to search his face for clues, to see if the layer of varnish he'd painted on already showed cracks. In fact, it was so hard that Myrcella caught her at it and touched her wrist when the others at the table were not paying them any attention.

"You," she started, keeping her voice as low as the noise levels in the room would allow, "are staring at the groom." Anyone else would probably grin and wink and think they'd understand, but Myrcella was a very intelligent young woman and she could clearly read at least part of Margaery's mind. "What's up?"

The customary '_nothing_' was already forming on her lips when she saw the look in Myrcella's eyes and realised it was futile. She sighed and looked at the main table again, watched how Robb played his part perfectly with Roslin a pretty vision in a pale yellow gown that actually made her look even more beautiful continually by his side. There was no denying that Roslin Frey was a beautiful woman and it made Margaery's stomach clench in an unexpected wave of jealousy.

"It's an arranged marriage," she ended up muttering, feeling bad about lying to Myrcella, even if it was by omission. She'd made up her mind; no one could know of her affair (apart from her husband and her brother), as she didn't want to jeopardize Robb's position. Because being forced into a marriage and agreeing to it because you were the eldest son who was expected to place honour and the ancient family name and the _company_ above all else (most importantly one's own happiness) sounded like it was enough of a terrible burden to carry without the added stress of a recent passionate love affair being leaked to the press. "I guess I'm looking for signs of reluctance," she added, "because I don't believe in a million years that a man like Robb Stark would ever marry a girl like Roslin Frey of his own free will."

"She's pretty," Myrcella suggested, lifting her champagne glass, gazing at the bride-to-be over the rim of it. "And willing, I'm sure."

"Hmm," was Margaery's sole comment. _He doesn't want pretty and willing_, she thought. _He wants strength and initiative._ She swallowed and looked at him once more. _He wants me_. It was a thought she had managed to keep a lid on ever since he'd walked out of her life, but deep down she wished it were true. She pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated on being agreeable and funny and she even cleared her plate before finding herself unable to refuse Renly when he asked her for a dance. The dance floor was a massive, polished weirwood affair and as always Renly proved to be a great dancer, making her almost forget the complexities of the evening when –

"Margaery," Robb breathed after he had broken in, winking at a retreating Renly as he took over. Renly easily let go of her as she spoke Robb's name in utter surprise, walking away and throwing them a glance that telegraphed exactly what he knew.

"My god, you look beautiful," Robb said softly enough so that other dancers nearby wouldn't hear, holding her hand right next to her shoulder, keeping her closer than was strictly appropriate. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I noticed you just now. I thought Renly had come alone." They twirled apart, but it was just a breathless second before his hands closed around her waist again. "I _had_ to dance with you."

Her heart was beating frantically in her throat and she was ridiculously aware of all the places their bodies met. He looked stunning in his tux; it was actually the first time she saw him in a suit, and the only thing she wanted to do was to tear the garments off. A flush was traveling up her neck which would not do; a dance with the groom was one thing; getting hot and bothered for all the world to see was quite another.

"Please," she said and she heard desperation lacing that one word. "People will notice."

"Let them notice," Robb growled and shifted her a little closer still, "they all know this is not a marriage for love anyway."

She swallowed, found it hard to think as she felt his body pressed up against hers, reminding her of the endless encounters in King's Landing when she had his body – his _naked_ body – under her palms and her mouth, forever hers to explore. If she closed her eyes she was sure she could still outline the muscles on his back, map the cords that ran across his shoulders to his neck, feel the swatch of red ruby hair on his chest and stomach that she loved to run her nails through. She could – she knew – but right here, on this very public dance floor with Robb doing an equally poor job of hiding his true feelings, she shouldn't and so she pulled herself together.

"Not here," she breathed, smiling widely at him as if he had just whispered a joke into her ear, hoping it was enough of a deflection. "Later, if we can." She pulled back and saw his eyes; saw the predatory wolf she had come to love so much permeated in them. "If you _want_," she added, because it hit her that indecent proposals to a man on the eve of marriage could be perceived in entirely the wrong way by said man. Before she could press the matter the music ended and Robb was forced to step away from her as they both applauded the musicians. He brushed a kiss across her knuckles and looked up at her through his lashes before bowing out. He never looked back as he made his way over to where Roslin was seated with his and her parents, and Margaery could almost scream in frustration for not being given an answer. She watched him until he'd sat down again, realizing that he had not – until that point – danced with anyone else (apart from the opener with his bride) and suddenly she wondered what the people around her must think. It made her walk back to her table as quickly as good graces (and her dress) would allow and as she sat down, dodging Myrcella's scrutinizing stares turned out to be her next challenge. It was no good, though.

"Well," Myrcella stated, almost smugly. "That explained a lot."

"No, it did not," Margaery countered firmly, trying no to shoot her a murderous look.

"Come with me," Myrcella smiled, unfazed, and stood up. "I've been here for a few days now; this place is a real castle – it has trap doors and vaults and secret corridors where we can talk. Follow me." Myrcella allowed herself to be pulled by the hand, hoping people would take their hurried exit as a bid for nose-powdering and nothing else.

"Don't tell me," Myrcella said, a little out of breath as she pushed the heavy oak door closed behind her, resting her back against it, looking at Margaery standing forlornly in the middle of the first-floor library, "that you have a thing for Robb Stark."

Margaery shrugged. She didn't want to lie to her friend but outright telling her what had happened and how that had made her feel for the past weeks was also something she had pledged not to do.

"When?" Myrcella asked, filling her own blanks, before adding, "recently?"

Margaery nodded once, feeling the urge to look at the points of her silk shoes but instead keeping her eyes on the blond Baratheon girl. Her affair with Robb was not something to be ashamed of, she thought firmly, squaring her shoulders.

"Did you hook up with him when he was in King's Landing two months ago?"

_See? Far too clever for her own good_. Margaery did a quick recap of the things she would and would not divulge to Myrcella if push came to shove, and decided that it _really_ was no good; the woman clearly had her number.

"You cannot breathe a word about this to anyone, Myrcella," she started, stressing her name. "I don't want this to come back to haunt me, much less Robb."

Myrcella nodded solemnley and something in the girl's eyes told Margaery that of all the Baratheons (after all, she _was_ family) Myrcella was actually the only one besides Renly who she felt she could let in on her secret.

"I ran into him in a bar in King's Landing. We talked and talked and we had such a great evening," she began, "and he walked me back to my place and just kissed me on the cheek, so sweet." Myrcella started to shake her head, clearly about to say something about those Starks and their infuriating sense of honour, as Margaery continued, "while he slipped a matchbook into my coat pocket with his room number on it." Myrcella clapped a hand over her open mouth, eyes wide in laughter and amazement. "I found it the next day and… well, I guess we spent the next three weeks together," Margaery deadpanned, thinking her account was as accurate and concise as she could possibly deliver it. "And not exactly _talking_."

"Wow," Myrcella mused eloquently when it dawned on her exactly what Margaery was telling her. "On all accounts – you're a brave woman to show up here."

Her look went from sympathetic to suspicicous, suddenly. "Unless you are fine with him marrying another?" She leaned in, away from the oak at her back. "As cold in bed as the snow outside they're so ridiculously proud of?"

"Hardly," Margaery deadpanned again, pushing the by now familiar images of a fiery Robb Stark fucking her in his hotel bed and anywhere else that would somehow accommodate them as far from her mind as possible. "You're right; I _am_ a brave woman."

"And he feels the same way, doesn't he?" Myrcella went on to ask, undoubtedly thinking of the way Robb had held her those first few seconds of their dance. "He looked like he could devour you on the spot."

The word wouldn't go past her lips, so Margaery just nodded, feeling pathetically inadequate all of a sudden. It seemed as if the enormity of what he was about to witness finally truly hit her and it was all she could do not to collapse on the spot. Of course she had been fooling herself after that first week of tears and feeling sorry for herself, after she had managed to make herself believe that Robb had been nothing more than a one night (well, okay, _three week_) stand. She had banished his image and his voice and the feel of his hands on her hips or his lips on every last sensitive spot on her body from her conscience so thoroughly that she'd almost convinced herself it had meant nothing – that Robb Stark had meant nothing.

"I'm an idiot," she managed to choke out and grabbed for the nearest chair. "And – and," she had to work hard to keep the tears at bay, not to stutter through her words, "and I shouldn't be here; I'm making things so much harder for _both_ of us."

Myrcella had wrapped an arm around her shoulders, rubbing them vigorously, her eyes thoughtful. "Maybe," she muttered in the end, when Margaery had more or less composed herself again and made to stand up. "He's a Stark. He has an infuriating sense of honour."

"Exactly," Margaery sighed, grabbing the door knob.

"Maybe," Myrcella repeated before both women left the room.

Margaery sat combing through her long hair, the silver pins Sansa had put in that afternoon abandoned on the dressing table.

Renly had just left for more partying and a highly likely spell of Loras before joining her in their room again – which she doubted he would – after he had sat on the corner of the bed, watching her reflection in the mirror, asking her again if she was all right. Of course she had lied and told him things were fine, that it had been nice while it lasted but that everybody had moved on. She wondered if her husband had believed her, well aware that Renly read her better than most people, even if their marriage had never been consummated. He was still a great friend, and she did feel bad about lying to him, but he would stay with her if she told him the truth and she didn't want to burden him, or take away his evening with Loras.

She also still entertained a faint glimmer of hope that Robb might want to speak to her before the night was out, before the new day would begin and he would end it a married man. So she told Renly to find Loras and have a good time with him and not worry about her; that she was fine indeed and might even get up to some mischief of her own. She hoped it was enough of a hint for Renly not to come barging through the door anytime soon that night.

And now she found herself alone, staring at her reflection, listening to the huge clock in the corner ticking the minutes away, the faintest of party sounds filtering through from somewhere deep inside the castle every time the heavy door to the massive central staircase was opened.

A short knock on the door shook Margaery from her thoughts. She had pulled one of the armchairs to the huge floor-to-ceiling window to watch the snowflakes dance in the torch light outside her room. The darkness had been soothing and she had only gotten up to kill all the lights; not expecting anyone anymore as the hands of the grandfather clock slowly moved past two. On returning to the chair and the quiet view outside she had grabbed one of the amazingly embroidered blankets (an apparent regional craft with patterns that were found nowhere else in Westeros) from the foot of the bed and had made herself comfortable. She felt she might fall asleep there and didn't even mind.

"Don't tell me you lost your key," she started to scold her husband as she slowly opened the heavy door, but it wasn't Renly. Her eyes widened, flicking left and right to check the lengthy corridor, motioning for Robb to come in quickly, which he did.

"Margaery," he breathed again, similar to the way he had done when he held her on the dance floor. She moved with his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck (the bow tie gone, the distinct smell of a rich Dornish red on his breath) and he didn't even give her time to say anything in return.

"I wanted to come sooner," he continued, dipping his nose in the space between neck and shoulder, ghosting his lips along her collarbone. "You were all I could think of ever since we danced." His hands travelled up to pull her dressing gown open, staring at her naked body with blatant want. "I honestly can't tell you what it was they put on my plate," he continued, tracing a finger along the inside of one breast, where her skin was softest and she could only stare as his lips trailed behind the finger. "Or what old man Frey had to say to me." He nipped at the underside of her breast and then Margaery lost it. _To all seven hells with propriety_, she thought and dropped her head back to give Robb better access. She shivered as his teeth ran along the soft swell of her throat, his hands by now untying the sash of her dressing gown, allowing it to drop to the floor, walking her to the nearest wall and pushing her up against it. "I've been half-hard all night just thinking about you," he murmured against her cheek, his tongue peeking out to lick at the corner of her mouth. "Thinking about touching you – here," he continued and cupped a hand around her breast once more, "and here" and she felt the flat of his palm against her tummy, stroking down down down, "and here," he groaned as he slid two fingers across her folds, parting them and tasting her as he brought his hand up to his mouth.

"Gods, Robb," Margaery moaned, feeling so torn she didn't know what to say anymore, grabbing his back harder, pulling him closer, clawing at the buttons of his dress shirt. "What have we gotten ourselves into?" She could almost cry with the desperation she felt, having him here now, all but tearing his clothes off him, knowing that in the morning he'd marry another woman.

"That's for tomorrow," he said, hoisting her up after she'd hurriedly opened his trousers, parting the sides and pushing them down, running her nails hard along the curve of his ass. "Bed," he hissed after he'd stepped out of his pants, turning around with her still in his arms – her legs wrapped around his body, crossed at the ankles. They never made it to the bed, though, when she renewed their kiss, a deep, warm, noisy kiss that had her boneless in his arms – their lips performing a wet, slippery dance. She bit his lower lip and sucked on it, leaving it swollen and red and he growled again as he dropped her to her feet, cupping her face between two large, warm hands.

"I have you still," he murmured close to her ear, "I don't care about tomorrow; not now." He lowered her on the bed and made quick work of his underwear, pushing her legs apart. Yet, instead of laying his fingers or his mouth on her, he bracketed her face with his forearms, lowering himself on top of her. "I think I'm in love with you, Margaery Tyrell," he whispered against her mouth, "and I'm about to make a terrible mistake." She wrapped him up in arms and legs and rolled them over so that she ended up on top of him.

"I might just be in love with you too," she smiled down at him, spearing her slender fingers through his messy curls, "and that won't stop even if you do make that mistake."

They kissed again and it was slow and gentle and Margaery knew that if they had been more clothed and less desperate the whole situation would have made her cry. Now, all she felt was want; want for that hard body underneath her, want for that devilish tongue in her mouth, and those warm, expert hands on her sex; want for Robb Stark making her come as he had so many times before. "Get in me," she whispered once the tremors had left her body, moving back slightly to give herself enough room to wrap a determined hand around his cock – solid and hot in her palm.

"Fuck," Robb moaned repeatedly, closing his eyes as she lowered herself in his lap, taking him to the hilt, her palms flat on his broad chest.

"Don't move," he hissed, breathing audibly, roaming his hands over her thighs, keeping her pinned. She stilled immediately, running her hands from his chest up his neck, shivering as she felt the coarse hair of his beard, then cupping his face.

"I've missed you so much," she murmured, bending closer to him, kissing his forehead. "I have not been with –"

"Me neither," he broke in, reaching up to catch her lips again and she kissed the tip of his nose before parting his lips with her tongue, cutting off whatever else he'd meant to say. He started to move inside of her then, his hips circling under her, and she moved her hands from his face to his upper arms, squeezing the cords of muscle she could feel under her palms. She picked up his rhythm and matched it, watching his eyes glaze over like they had done each and every time back in King's Landing; every snap of her hips answered with a soft groan.

"Touch yourself," Robb muttered, his brain clearly struggling to stay connected. "I want to watch."

The words made her shiver, a fresh wave of arousal washing over her as she brought down a hand, his eyes glued to where her fingers circled that amazing tip of nerve endings and he was sliding in and out (and in and out) of her and he was fighting it, she could tell. Hell, she was fighting it herself; the stimulation combined with the look of wonder and greed in Robb's eyes and his gritty Northern brogue muttering a string of soft, encouraging bits of filth; the combination of both more than enough to push her close to the brink _again_.

"Don't," she whimpered, her breath steadily knocked from her lungs as Robb upped their tempo, his hands locked around her hipbones, "don't marry her, don't, don't…"

She reached behind and dug her fingers in his thighs, changing the angle and it caused them to peak – almost at the same time, which made Margaery ridiculously proud. She wheezed out the breath she was holding, stuttering through every shallow snap of his hips, his groan long and low as he rode the wave of their orgasm.

"Don't marry her," Margaery repeated, collapsing in Robb's arms, realising she was begging but not giving a damn when he was able to make her feel this way all over again.

"I don't want to," Robb answered; the exhaustion of days and the frustration of months suddenly all rolled into those few words. "But you have no idea what's at stake." He sighed, enveloping her as he rolled her to his side, covering them with the comforter he managed to pull up. "I _have _to marry Roslin; Walder Frey somehow has the power to end Stark Inc. _and_ Baratheon Enterprises; it's why the brothers of Dragonstone are already here; days before the other guests." He sighed and kissed her temple and Margaery felt anger and loss and love all in that self-same instant; wishing she could climb _inside_ Robb Stark and make it all better.

"I would never marry her if things weren't so dire," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers. "I want you; I want to be with you."

Unsurprised, Margaery could feel tears roll down her cheeks this time and she burrowed as deep as she could in the shelter of Robb's arms and chest. She felt the draw of his breath and the drum of his heart before she could make out his words.

"I love you."


End file.
